Mother Mycroft
by sillythings
Summary: Molly has a baby. Mycroft is there to help.


Mother Mycroft

_**Jumping on the Molly has Sherlock's baby bandwagon. So, Mycroft is a total mother-hen, and the idea of him being there while Molly gives birth was funny to me. On a side note, I completely respect and honor natural birth and doulas, but I have had two babies, and the events and dialogue in this short fic may or may not have been inspired by real events.**_

Molly Hooper was in pain, the worst pain she had ever known in her life. She had been in unproductive labor for nearly 24 hours. It would figure that Sherlock's baby would decide that an easy birth is just too boring. Where's the adventure in that? Let's make Molly suffer. Oh, yes, even if Molly wasn't perfectly sure that nine month's previously, shortly after leaping of the roof of the hospital, Sherlock Holmes shared her bed and put her in this situation, the fact that this baby was trying to torture her was all the paternity evidence needed that this was the spawn of Sherlock. When he finally returned to life, a blood test wouldn't be necessary. She'd just show him the birthing film of the unremitting torture. He'd probably be proud. And why did she decide a photographer should be here to film this? Did she really need a video of herself, bloated, sweaty and moaning? On second thought, no one would ever see the film. Burn it, that's what she'd do.

The doula, Abby, stroking her shoulders and back said encouragingly, "the first baby often takes a long time, but trust me, you don't want the pitocin. With pitocin, it will be more difficult for you to do this unmedicated. Remember your birth plan. Let it happen naturally." With great effort, Molly focused on the small woman with the intense eyes and strong hands. Birth plan? What _had_ she been thinking? She was a doctor. She knew many of the risks of hospital care that the average person did not, but for heaven's sake, she WAS a doctor. She believed in medicine, in drugs. Pain bad. No pain good.

"Breathe through the contractions," Abby intoned, stroking down Molly's back. "Would you like to sit on the birthing ball again?"

No, no thank you, Abby, I do not wish to work on my core at the moment, was Molly's first wild thought. She clamped her lips together and shook her head wildly. "How about another shower?" Abby suggested. The doula was good, encouraging, everything a doula should be. Molly hated her.

"Nooo," she moaned as another contraction hit her. She was standing gripping the edge of the bed, knees apart, hospital gown open in the back so Abby could keep rubbing her back. Molly heard something that might be called a commotion just outside the door. The door swung open, and against the protests of a nurse, in strode Mycroft Holmes and his assistant. Molly stared in open-mouthed astonishment for a moment before she remembered that her bare bottom was currently on display. The hell? She turned around and sat down just as another contraction hit, causing her to lurch forward again groaning.

"Stay strong, Molly. The pain is good. Work with the pain. It is helping you…" Abby began, when Molly suddenly whipped her head up.

"I think I need something, Abby. I can't do this anymo-…" Molly started to say, when the doula laid a finger on her lips and shushed her. Molly was vaguely aware of Mycroft saying something first to the nurse and then to his assistant, An-something? Molly didn't care. She moaned again.

"No, dear, your birthing plan is what you wanted and I'm here to advocate for you and your little one." Abby smiled encouragingly. She was being strong for Molly.

Molly hung her head and let the contraction wash over her again. She felt lightheaded, weak. She hadn't eaten, hadn't slept in more than a day. How was she going to do this?

"Excuse me, but if Miss Hooper asked for pain relief, shouldn't it be provided to her? She is a medical professional, after all" the round tones of Mycroft Holmes filled the birthing suite.

"I don't know quite who you are, Mr.—" Abby continued to stroke Molly's back

"Holmes, Mycroft Holmes. I'm a member of the family, so to speak," he smiled dangerously at doula, his lips thin and closed. Anthea stared the doula down before looking over at Molly. Molly raised her head at Mycroft's statement. If she'd had the energy, she would have expressed her shock that Mycroft knew. She hadn't told anyone who the father was. In fact, her pregnancy itself had been a closely guarded secret until she started to show in her seventh month, and even then, she wore a lab coat most of the time which kept all but her closest friends in the dark. Anthea stared at her a beat longer and began to type onto her phone.

"Well, I was not informed that any other family members would be present. In fact, I was assured the father would not be, but again, I am here to support Molly's wishes for a natural birth, as free from intervention as possible." Abby was resolute.

Mycroft glanced down at a tablet in his hands, reading through some information on the screen, "This labor has been going on for more than 24 hours according to my sources. Surely that cannot be good for Molly or the baby."

"Molly," Mycroft turned to the trembling woman. She had a death grip on the bed railing. "Would you like some pain relief now? " Molly thought she was going to cry. Her heart swelled with love for this beautiful man. This beautiful, beautiful man. He was going to save her.

"Yes, ye—" she broke off as another pain gripped her.

"Molly, think about this," Abby turned to the laboring woman, "you can't just abandon your plan because a STRANGER comes in and…"

"Hardly a stranger, madam. I am the uncle of Miss Hooper's child, and I assure you that I have his or her best interests in mind!" Mycroft showed his teeth as he again smiled at the woman. If Molly had been capable of registering any emotion besides fatigue at the moment, she would have been shocked, maybe terrified. As it was, she just stared vacantly at the man for a moment before turning to the doula.

"Abby," Molly said calmly, "Thank you, but please take your back rubs and patchouli and get out."

"That's just the pain talking, Molly," Abby began reasonably when Mycroft stepped up and began to gently escort the doula from the suite.

"Which is all the more reason to give her something for the pain, now isn't it?" He smiled again at the older woman, "We'll see that you are well compensated and receive nothing but rave reviews for the service provided. Good evening." Anthea shut the door after the woman, and resumed typing.

"Anthea, get Dr. Meyers.." he began.

"Already on it, sir. I'm clearing his schedule now. "

Such lovely people. Warm, generous people. Why did Sherlock not get along with his brother, again? He was a perfect darling. Molly's kind thoughts were cut short with another contraction. She let out the "cleansing moan" while Mycroft looked at Anthea in alarm. Anthea shook her head and shrugged. How should she know?

Lost in a haze of red, hot pain, Molly became aware that Mycroft was in discussion with a nurse, and within a few moments, the nurse was starting an IV. Within a few moments more, Molly was in a pink mist of peace. The gut-wrenching pains eased. She looked at the nurse in beatific wonder.

"Just a little Demerol to tide you over until the anesthesiologist gets here, Molly, " the nurse said kindly. Molly smiled.

"It's like a dream," she sighed happily. She turned her foggy attention to the well-dressed man standing a bit stiffly in the entry way of the room. "How did you know Sherlock made me pregnant?" She asked Mycroft abruptly. Mycroft tilted his head, looking at her closely, before he answered, "I keep an eye on everyone my brother associates with. Surely you know this?"

"Were you spying on me," she asked coyly shaking a finger at him. "Secret cameras and whatnot?"

Mycroft seemed amused, "I have many methods, Miss Hooper. And the well-being of my brother _and _his child is paramount." Speaking of cameras, he glanced over at the photographer who was filming away. He briefly wondered if she should send the young woman with the camera away, but decided against it. She already knew too much, and there were ways of ensuring her silence.

Molly frowned, "He doesn't even know." Mycroft looked hesitant for a moment, opening his mouth to reply before closing his lips again. Molly brooded a moment before relaxing back into her hospital bed with a peaceful sigh. "I think I can do this now," she announced, and before long, she was dozing lightly as Mycroft and Anthea stood guard.

A shift change and the new nurse looked in askance at the formally clad gentleman and his assistant, sitting stiffly on the sofa in the corner of the room, tapping away at phone and tablet. A rather odd birthing team. "The anesthesiologist is here, Molly love," the nurse stirred Molly gently. "You'll need to sit up now."

The nurse stepped up to Mycroft and Anthea, and briskly asked, "Who wants to hold her arms and head while I'm assisting Dr. Meyers?" The two looked up, both rather blankly.

"I beg your pardon," Mycroft started, before the nurse cut him off, all efficiency—

"I need someone to hold her hands, help keep her still while we do the epidural. Just help her stay calm." She turned to help Molly sit up and drape herself over the little side table, pillow on top to cradle her head. Molly laid her head on the pillow and looked at Mycroft out of the corner of her eye. Mycroft looked at Anthea who shook her head vehemently.

"Bet you wish the doula was still here now," Molly mumbled. Mycroft stood up in a huff.

"Nonsense. You wouldn't be having an epidural if the doula was still here and besides, I've assisted my brother through much worse. Here," he approached Molly who pressed her forehead against his chest as he grasped her hands and gently chafed them back and forth. "There now, you'll be feeling fine in a moment."

"I chose the wrong Holmes to fall in love with. You know how to take care of a girl," Molly slurred softly, face in the pillow. The corner of Anthea's mouth twitched in small smile at Mycroft who merely raised his eyebrows.

Molly winced as the epidural was placed, but the Demerol was keeping her calm. As the anesthesiologist finished placing the line, she turned her head and stared in fascination at Mycroft's midsection, right at her eye-level. "Gosh, your buttons are posh, "she breathed. She reached out a finger to poke one. Mycroft glanced at the young women with the video camera.

"Is this really video worthy?" he snapped. The young woman lowered the camera and swallowed hard in the face of this imposing man's anger.

"I-I just film everything and then edit it down, creating the narrative—you know,-after…after the fact," she stammered. Mycroft stared at her appraisingly for a moment before he sighed, "Very well, but no copies are to be kept of that film. The original will be sent to me. Under no circumstances are you to retain any footage from this birth." The British government had spoken. The young photographer nodded her head.

"Yes, sir," she said promptly, wondering just who this man was and what had she found herself in the middle of. Molly had seemed so nice, so normal when she hired her. Who were these people?

Molly had by this point settled back on her bed, and frowning at Mycroft, she pointed a finger at the photographer, "Film away! This is MY baby's birth. MY labor. Not yours, Mycroft Holmes. You want to call the shots, you go jump off the roof and have your own baby." And with that, she closed her eyes and settled back on the pillow.

For the next few hours, Molly napped off and on while Mycroft and Anthea continue to keep watch. The photographer took a small break, but returned when Molly was roused by the nurses after a quick check for dilation.

"It's time, Molly! Let's meet your baby!" The mid-wife bustled into the room with a smile that faltered slightly when she saw the two suited individuals standing in the corner of the room.

The epidural was turned off and the pushing began. It was horrific. Molly knew how muscles worked, looked at other people's inner workings on a regular basis, in fact, but she was exhausted and just could not make any progress.

"Push, push, push!" the midwife coached. How? How? Molly thought wildly. I am pushing. She felt lightheaded again.

"Abdominals, Molly. Use your abdominals," Mycroft coached from where he stood holding her leg. When had that happened? She looked to the other leg to see if Anthea had the other one, but no, it was the nurse. Anthea was in the far corner, watching with wide eyes. But, yes, Mycroft Holmes was holding her leg and looking square at her vagina. It doesn't normally look like that, she wanted to assure him, but then, another contraction and she didn't care who was taking a peek. Abdominals. Right. She knew about abdominals. She cut through someone's abdomen just last month, right before going on maternity leave. Those abdominals were so strong, so useful. She tucked her chin into her chest and visualized her abdominal muscles contracting, pushing out the baby. She could feel the shift immediately.

"That's it, that's it!" the midwife exclaimed enthusiastically, "Now we're making progress." Mycroft looked smug, "There now!" he said enthusiastically. Molly would have told him to shut up if she'd had any breath left, but she had to focus on her abdominal muscles, pushing, pushing, pushing…

"Do you want to see the head in the mirror, Molly?" The nurse asked positioning the mirror at the foot of the bed. Molly shook her head. No, thank you very much, she was concentrating. Pushing, pushing, pushing…

Molly let out one primitive, guttural scream, the first real cry she had uttered since going into labor, and…There she was! There was her baby. Red and howling and frankly huge. No wonder that hurt! Before she knew it, she had her daughter in her arms, pressed against her chest. The slippery heat of her was astonishing. She felt like magic, like pure light and life. Burning, burning just like her father. Molly gasped.

"Oh! OH! Look at you!" she ran her hands over the baby's soft skin and glanced up with a grin at Mycroft who had a look that could not be deciphered. Not that she cared about Mycroft. Look at her baby! She did that! The baby was taken from her (Mycroft cut the cord) and cleaned and weighed while Molly was taken care of. Mycroft stood attentively watching over the tiny girl until she was swaddled and handed back to her mother

Molly was elated. She was the all-powerful earth mother. What couldn't she do! Bring on Moriarty and his men! Pooh to Mycroft Holmes! What were they to her? She just pushed a human being out of her body! She stared down at the round, red face of her baby girl. Even straight out of the womb, the parentage was obvious—the cheekbones, the tilt of the eyes. She even had a shock of black hair, quickly drying, though Molly knew that it would likely fall out before assuming its true color. The baby looked furious.

"My God," she said aloud, "I've given birth to Sherlock Holmes." She declared staring at her daughter in awe. "Except she's a girl, obviously."

Mycroft stared in wonder at the baby, "Not something I'd be quick to announce just yet, Molly." Molly's brow furrowed and she stared at him indignantly. "The Sherlock part, not the fact that she is a girl," he amended quickly, and Molly smiled at him again.

"Oh, of course! I may not even tell him! Give him a little puzzle when he gets back. A welcome home present. Can you deduce who my baby's father is? I'll give you a hint: I had sex with him right after he jumped off a building." Molly laughed. She felt a little hysterical.

Mycroft quirked a brow at her, "Yes, well, I don't know that there will be any doubt. She's most definitely a Holmes." Anthea leaned over, the first time she'd gotten close to Molly in nearly an hour. Thank you for not looking at my vagina, Molly wanted to say, but instead she just moved back a corner of the baby's blanket so Anthea could get a better look.

"She is beautiful, Molly. What will you call her?" The beautiful woman smiled sweetly at the new mother and her scowling infant.

"Mmm. I was thinking Lucinda. Lucy, for short," Molly said proudly. "Lucy Hooper."

"Lucinda Holmes. Yes, that will do nicely, I think," corrected Mycroft, gently laying his hand over the baby's head. "Little Lucy."

Mycroft and Anthea stayed until both mother and child were settled, and after assuring Molly that a personal nurse and nanny had been hired and would be looking in on her later, they departed leaving Molly in a loving, reverential cloud with her tiny infant.

Molly snuggled down in the bed, her baby in the crook of her arm. "Uncle Mycroft certainly seems taken with you my fine lady" Molly cooed softly at her baby who was blinking her little elf eyes as she gazed into her mother's face. Oh, those ARE your father's eyes, she thought sleepily. Oh my dearest, what will your daddy think of you?

Three months later, Molly found out exactly what Sherlock Holmes thought of his daughter as he sat on Molly's sofa, cradling the little girl in trembling hands. Molly was hovering and could tell Sherlock had just about reached his emotional threshold. His face was not unlike when he confessed that he needed her help with his "suicide." To Molly's immense anger and equally immense relief, Mycroft had told Sherlock before he returned. How dare Mycroft Holmes meddle in such a personal matter, but then again, where would she be if he had not. He had been a quiet, steady presence, not often appearing, but seeming to know instantly when she or the baby needed anything. The nanny he provided was highly qualified and discreet, and when new motherhood threatened to overwhelm Molly, she was a constant, reliable support. Molly was alternately grateful and incandescent with rage at his interference. Did Mycroft think her a child? At the same time, oh God, what would she have done without him? She began to understand Sherlock's complicated relationship with his brother.

As for Sherlock, to hear the news from his brother that Molly, Molly Hooper, his salvation, his brief lover, his (could he admit it?) heart, was pregnant, had given birth to a daughter, his daughter, was something he could hardly conceive. It did not compute, though he came to accept the fact logically, rationally. He had sex with Molly in the two or three weeks he stayed with her after his faked suicide. She had saved him. She loved him, and he began to realize how much he felt for her. To leave her had been painful like nothing he'd ever experienced, but what must be done, must be done.

So, he knew when he let himself into Molly's apartment and woke her gently with a kiss on her forehead that there was a child, but knowing it intellectually had not prepared him for the emotional understanding, for the intense terror of holding the tiny child in his hands. There were his eyes, most decidedly blue. Her hair had settled into a smooth, light brown silken cap on her perfectly rounded head. Yes, that looked like a Molly nose. The mouth was indeterminate. But there were her cheekbones (cheekbones on a baby! Ridiculous, but there all the same). Her tiny hands that he stroked in wonder were long fingered like his own. Tears stood in his eyes, and Molly quickly took Lucy out of Sherlock's hands. He would be okay, but she could tell he needed a moment.

"I'll just change her and put her to bed," Molly said softly, looking deep into his eyes. He swallowed and nodded. He reached out one hand to gently stroke Molly's cheek. "She is…perfection," he said hoarsely and he bent to lay a kiss on the baby's head. Feeling tears start in her own eyes, she rose to take the baby to the nursery.

"If you want, there is a photo album just there, of the birth and the first couple of months," Molly said shyly. Sherlock nodded again and she turned with her baby, leaving Sherlock alone to process the new emotion.

As she changed the baby's nappy, she could hear that he had picked up the album, flipping through pages. She was just settling the baby into her cot when she heard an incredulous snort from the living room.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed. She heard the photo album thump to the floor, and she quickly made her way back to the living room. Sherlock was standing, staring at her intently, mouth slightly open. He looked like he was panting.

"Mycroft saw you give birth to our daughter?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes! " Molly nodded, "Saw the whole shebang." She suddenly realized that was the wrong thing to say to this overwrought and emotional man standing in her living room.

"The whole shebang. Your shebang?" he said quietly, dangerously.

"Well, I wasn't in any position to cover up," she said indignantly. "Don't' be jealous. It's not like he saw it at its best now did he. Not like you did," she began when she clapped her hand over her mouth. She had no shame anymore. None at all. Apparently, all sense of self-consciousness was pushed out along with her daughter.

She reached out a tentative hand, and laid it on Sherlock's arm. "He really was quite lovely and helpful. Uncle Mycroft is quite smitten with Lucy. And besides, Anthea was there the whole time."

Sherlock gazed at her a moment, considering this lovely woman before him, the mother of his daughter, before reaching out to take her into his arms.

"He always did like to play mother," he said and kissed the top of her head.


End file.
